Even Angels Die
by House-less
Summary: The tragedy unites and, during misfortune, pride no longer exists. Huddy but also House/Cuddy/Wilson friendship. One-shot post season 7.


Hello you guys!

Here is a translation of one of my one-shots. "Goodbye Agony". The title is different but is also inspired by the Black Veil Brides' song under that title. Listen to it if it's your genre :)

This one-shot is to set sometime after season 7, but House never went to jail and etc.  
Rated T for sexual situations and the strong theme.

I hope you enjoy it, let me know your thoughts.

* * *

 **Even Angels Die**

She arched her back, gasping on top of him. A few more seconds and the passion disappeared.  
Their glances look for each other and yet flee instantly.  
She falls smoothly beside him, to his left, with the same dose of shame and guilt as the past six times.

Wilson was suffering and they had the heart to have sex. _To make love,_ like he'd pointed out when she shared her thought with him.

" _I_ _haven't made_ _love to a woman since last time," he'd told her, laying on his back._

 _She hadn't seemed to believe him._

" _The other women_ _, it was just sex," he'd added. But it hadn't been enough anymore._

" _And we just made love?"_

" _We always will_ _. You know that."_

" _Always?" she'd asked._

" _As long as_ _you'll_ _want me."_

 _She_ _hadn't added_ _a thing, satisfied with his response. They'd signed a pact._

Now, it was just comfort and forgetfulness they found in their encounters.  
 _He'd came_ _to_ _her six weeks_ _before_ _. "I need you," he'd said, standing in her new villa's doorway. Neither of them had expected what had happened afterward._

The calm filled the place again, and both came back to reality.  
They feel selfish about looking for consolation while he had no choice but to suffer. Even the chemo has lost its effects.

Every Thursday, they meet. At her place, most often.  
They didn't talk much, it hurt less this way. Their bodies expressed the things they couldn't say.  
Wilson had chemo the next day. They had to be strong for him; together, they were.

She slept against his body, wondering where it would lead them and what it meant.  
For the past six weeks, they lived every day like it was the last one; questions would come later.  
They lived with tears in their eyes and fear in their stomach. The fear of waking up on _the_ bad news consumed their souls.

Nevertheless, the day begins and they have to face it. They dress in silence. She drives, they don't say a thing. Words are not enough anymore, silence is their new philosophy.

They'd convinced him to accept the treatment, he does it for them.  
He knows it is vain. They do, too.  
He gives himself six months at the most, they call him an idiot but they know he's right. It's his field, and they're doctors, too.

Three more weeks pass. Time is too slow for Wilson's taste. Every minute, every breath is a torture. But he doesn't say anything. It's sufficiently hard for them and he is happy they are there, both of them.

They avoided counting the days, he counts the seconds. They are waiting for a miracle, he can't handle it anymore.

She is in her living-room when he arrives. She doesn't hide her surprise, he isn't supposed to be there tonight.

"He wants morphine."

But he is already on morphine. She reads in his gaze and understands.

She takes a step toward him and hugs him. She forgets her sorrow to include his.  
He accepts her embrace. He isn't afraid of showing her his vulnerability anymore.  
She swallows her tears and steps back to meet his moistened eyes. She wants to show him that he's not alone.

"I pretended to see nothing … I … I don't want him to suffer," he said. "I know what it's like to suffer. But I …"

She doesn't say a word, lets him find his words.

"I can't let him go," he manages to say. He pulls her back to him and buries his face in her neck.

She feels humid kisses along her jaw and lets him. She needs it as much as he does.

That night, even sex isn't enough to appease them.  
He can't concentrate on what they are doing.  
She can't stop thinking about the news. She cracks and bursts in tears beneath him.  
He stops but she asks him to continue. He leans over her and kisses her, his lips are trembling. He can't stand it anymore, his body collapses on top of hers and remains motionless, his humid face buried in her neck, again.  
So they stay like that, merged in their sorrow.

"I'm coming with you."

Her voice sounds as distant as it is resigned.  
He tightens his grip on her to thank her.

He injects him a few milligrams of morphine and comes to sit beside her. The dose is high enough to dull his pain, low enough not to kill him; they want to spend a last moment with him, first.

They talk and laugh for half an hour. Wilson remind them of old memories, so distant, now.  
They evoke them with pleasure, genuinely happy for living those moments, the three of them.

Sometimes, his jaw tightens, and even if he dissimulates the pain, they see that the morphine has already worn off.

"House," Wilson implores him, an hour later.

He doesn't need more. He gets up and takes the syringe. Lethal. He respects his choice.

"Take care of yourselves," Wilson says with a smile.

She smiles back at him. She doesn't want to cry in front of him, not when it's the last time they'll see each other.

House slowly injects the poison in his veins. The effort he makes not to tremble is superhuman, and he doesn't know how he finds the strength to smile back at him, too.

"You're an idiot, Wilson," he reproaches him with a light tone.

"Doesn't matter." A slight laugh overtakes him. "Thank you."

He knows it's not for what he said.

"I love you."

And he puts the syringe on the bedside table. Their eyes remain locked.  
Wilson slowly closes his eyes. His lips form an appeased smile. He's happy. Finally.

Her lips freeze that very moment, and a sob chokes her. She looks away, incapable of seeing him like that, of accepting the reality. It's over now.

He sits beside her without a word, without an emotion.  
She wants to comfort him but he stays motionless. He seems unaffected.

She stands up, guessing he'd want to stay alone with him. One last time.

Two hours pass. She can't leave him alone anymore. Can't stay alone herself.  
He is sitting on the empty bed, alone. She slowly approaches him, till she faces him.  
He raises his head toward her.  
She barely has time to meet his gaze.  
He presses his forehead on her chest.

"'You leaving?" he asks now that it's over.

"No," she murmurs, surrounding him with her frail arms.

 _You have a limited number of opportunities to love someone, to do your work, to be a part of something, to parent your children, to do something good.(*)_

* * *

 **The End.**

 **(*) The great Bruce Springsteen in his autobiography - Born To Run.**

 **Special thanks for my friend Ju for this reference and to Lisa for checking on the text and helping me out with the mistakes. And thank you for reading :)**


End file.
